


oh it's alright, it's coming along

by jolie_unfiltrd



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Both Sweet and Filthy, Comes Up Right On The Edge of Canon, Did I listen to I Think We're Alone Now on repeat while writing this, F/M, First Time, Incest?, It's a fucking BOP man, Pre-Canon, Sexy Times, Technically Incest, Teen Romance, Underage (implied), Yes of course I did, technically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-09 07:02:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27179633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jolie_unfiltrd/pseuds/jolie_unfiltrd
Summary: Frivolous fun-having nonsense was only allowed between noon and half-past noon on Saturdays, so Luther and Allison had always tried to make the best of it.title from: right back where we started from by maxine nightingale
Relationships: Allison Hargreeves/Luther Hargreeves
Comments: 7
Kudos: 21





	oh it's alright, it's coming along

**Author's Note:**

> I watched season one as fast as possible (I know, I know, as always I am like ten years behind in terms of media consumption but listen, I have gremlins (children) and goblins (dogs) and it makes things a little more complicated) and anyway this just sort-of... tumbled out. Hope you enjoy! 
> 
> Beta'd by  @letterstomylove.  All mistakes are my own.

When they are five, it is puzzles that didn't end in poison, blowing bubbles that weren't also explosives, and spinning in circles in the garden until they are dizzy and fall onto each other, laughing uproariously.

When they are ten, they watch bits of ridiculous cartoons - five minutes one weekend, ten minutes the next - savoring the laughter and pretending to laugh along, drinking terrible sodas and eating whatever junk food Mom could give them (sometimes it was chocolate cake, sometimes it was pretzels and peanut butter, but as always, the Hargreeves siblings took what they could get).

When they are fifteen, what had started as a fun ritual between the two of them had morphed into something... more. Something that made Allison blush when she thinks about it, fingering the gold locket around her neck as she smooths down her riotous curls before knocking on his door. Something that makes the tips of Luther's ears flamingo-pink, even as he straightens his jacket and opens the door.

(In battle, in training, in life - they had always been aware of each other's bodies. But never had it been quite like _this_ \- where she could feel the heat from his crossed ankles, just inches from her own, and the spot where their knees touched as if she was on fire).

When they are seventeen, Luther plucks up his courage and kisses Allison gently on the cheek, pulling back at once, apologizing, with his cheeks aflame. She tosses her curls over her shoulders, smirks, and kisses him full on the lips, never one to back down from a challenge.

The bell rings, and they scramble to training, pretending as though their hearts weren't beating like swallows diving in the rain, swooping and diving dangerously, under the pristine black of their uniforms.

\---

Luther has a reputation as a blushing virgin, sweet and innocent and dumb and not courageous enough to even look at a girl, let alone _touch_ her.

It is a myth, a pretense cultivated carefully by the pair of them - with sideways glances and fingers that never quite touch, looks of longing from Luther and the facade of indifference (or, at best, mild interest) from Allison.

His reputation protected them both.

He got to remain Number One, the leader of their eccentric pack, and she got to remain aloof, and so they were both blameless about the tangled web of emotions between them, the secrets, the tension in every glance.

Besides, Luther couldn't reveal his secrets without it being completely and totally obvious that it was Allison who held all of his firsts, seconds, and forevers in the palm of her hand. First kiss, first fuck, first blow job... it's always been her.

(He wants it to always _be_ her).

\---

By the time they are eighteen, they have it down to a science.

12:02 - Luther and Allison meander to the library, one of the few spots in the house that was camera-free (due to Mr. Hargreeves' paranoia) with doors that would lock with a solid thunk (due to the Hargreeves childrens' irksome habit of bothering their father while he was reading). They peruse the shelves as their siblings dart to their own hobbies, and select tomes with careful consideration.

12:04 - She turns to him, a glint in her eyes, before she backs up into the shadowy corner, and he - every week - nearly forgets himself in his haste to get to her, to see her bared flesh as she slips out of her skirt, as she toes off her shoes, as she strips off the shirt with practiced precision. But he stops, nostrils flaring and eyes dark, and remembers to slide the lock into place.

Then, he is upon her, pressing kisses up the length of her neck, nuzzling the soft skin at her temple, allowing her to unbutton his trousers, to slide her hands around his waist, to feel the goosebumps left in her wake.

From there, it deviates, encounter by encounter.

One week, she is splayed across the main desk, one leg hitched on his shoulder and the other spread wide as he pounds into her, hips merciless but eyes tender as she gasps quietly, as he presses tender kisses to the arch of her calf, to the bones of her ankle. _I heard a rumor,_ she whispers into the space between them, the one filled with soft pants and that smells like musky arousal, _that you fucked me harder._ Harmless, guileless, easy - he would have done it anyways, but she asks, in the best way she knows how (a demand) and he happily complies.

The next, he is on the floor behind the bookshelves, hands tied above his head with her tie as she impales herself on his cock, over and over again, letting the whimpers fill her ears until she can hear nothing else, for days, can think of nothing else but his hunger for her, the way he desires her. The way she will sometimes admit, in the depth of the night, cradling the gold locket with one hand, that she desires him - desperate and all-consuming.

The week after, he is standing, lapping at her center with dedication as her legs are wrapped around his neck, her hands in his hair, leaning against the wall and she marvels - not for the first time - at the wonder of his strength.

(It is enough to catch her off guard at the next mission - struck dumb the way he casually lifts a car, wondering how they could further explore that in the metaphorical bedroom - and she almost gets shot. She tries to ogle less, after that).

(She fails). 

12:24 - Allison yanks her skirt back up her legs, pulls up her knee socks to exacting levels, and tries not to get distracted by Luther buttoning up his shirt. (It is just that, well, she wants to unbutton it and start all over again). The flush will linger on Luther's chest and neck for the next thirty minutes, which luckily coincides with running laps around the gymnasium and will never be remarked upon as odd.

Any bite marks or scratches, they are more careful to hide.

(It is not that it is a secret, not in the conventional way that would attach shame to the way they come together; only that it is private, something just for them, and they want to keep it that way).

12:28 - Luther unlocks the door and slides them open, and the two slink out to the living room, settling on the settee with their books in hand just as Grace bustles through the room, calling them for afternoon training.

\---

By the time they are nineteen, they have more freedom in the house than they ever have - no cameras in the corridors, no sensors on their temples at night, no constant demands to do more, train more, become _something_.

By the time they are nineteen, it is habit - to wake at dawn and run, to train in the gym, to throw punches and dodge knives and duck elbows. More than habit, it is second-nature, and as Reginald Hargreeves reminds them, they aren't children any longer. 

(It is possible that they never really were).

They fall into bed with each other each night and wake with kisses at the first glimpse of sun; it would not be unreasonable to say that they are habit to each other, too, no less than every other facet of their lives.

Allison starts to feel like maybe this, too, is habit. Maybe the way she feels about him is only an escape route for all of the feelings that have been suppressed her entire life, a natural consequence of being isolated from society and other people. Maybe she loves him because he is all she knows of happiness.

Luther does not wonder. He knows he loves her, he knows he will _always_ love her, he knows that Allison is the love of his life and has no reason to think about it with any more depth than that.

But the point is this: one night, when they are nineteen, Luther and Allison fall asleep in his bed, her lithe body draped over his like she is the one with tentacles, and when he wakes, she is gone, and he is clutching her locket and a note within his hand.

\---

Even on the moon, he dreams of her endlessly. He stares out into the abyss of darkness, the twinkling lights, the rising earth on the horizon and he wonders what she's doing, wonders if she's happy, wonders if she dreams of him, too.

The anger faded somewhere along the way, and though he can feel it flickering, like an ember in a fire - when he encourages it, remembers the agony of being left behind, by her, by _everyone_ , the embers catch and burn through the fury straight into desire.

And he dreams of her, again.

Even on the red carpet, she turns over her shoulder, half-expecting to see him standing there. She glances up at the moon through heavy lashes, barely visible with the amount of light pollution in LA, but she can see it. Knowing he's there doesn't give her as much comfort as she thinks it will.

She wakes, gasping his name, and is suddenly grateful that Patrick isn't there anymore.

She has no excuses left for the way she feels about him.

The way she's always felt about him.

\---

When he sees her again, it is a shock to his system - a pulse sent from his brainwaves to the tips of his fingertips, electrical and pulsing and _waiting_ and longing.

A thousand memories rush through his head - the first time he kissed her, the softness of the skin beneath her breast, the birthmark that exists on her left hip, the constellation of freckles on the back of her thighs that he'd once mapped with his tongue - and a predictable blush makes its way to the tip of his ears, even as he scolds his younger brother for sitting in their father's chair.

(His most mischievous brother, the one with the laugh that sank into your chest like a panacea, the one with dark shadows under his eyes that never seemed to fade, despite all the hedonistic pleasures).

Her eyes cut to him, raking up and down his outline with her characteristically frank gaze, and he tries not to fixate on the half-smile that plays across her lips.

(He fails).

Klaus leaves. The door slams.

They are alone, finally, at last, at once. 

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading my throwing-this-out-into-the-universe fic and one of the few freaking times i write something not in the game of thrones universe. (this may be why i'm rather... hand-wavy about the whole "technically incest" vibe about this pairing. like, come on.) 
> 
> as always, you can come fangirl with me on my [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/jolieunfiltrd) :) 
> 
> sending love to you all in the weirdest timeline. xoxo


End file.
